Written In The Stars
by MarthaJones11
Summary: The Woodland Realm calls her to the starlight, but her duty lies in service to Gondor. This is the journey of a young woman attempting to reconcile her past with her future, and dealing with the repercussions of destiny.
1. Chapter 1

They say that the guards of the Woodland Realm are the finest soldiers of Middle Earth. Their swords are sharp, their arrows are true, and their skills are otherworldly. They are fluid warriors, the best of their kind. But they are wrong. The true guards of the Woodland Realm are the stars that circle overhead, the stars by whose passing the Elves mark the changing seasons and growing years. These stars are brilliant, shining memory that nightly watch over the realm. Clusters of small dots, regions of large suns, constellations that tell the stories of the race, nebulae that burst with colors of green and gold across the inky nighttime sky. These are the ultimate guardians of the Woodland Realm, the watchful eyes that remember the past and herald the future, the memories that create story and call the wandering home. It is through starlight that Lastande, daughter of the King of Men, found her way back to the realm, and back into the destiny that was forever written in the stars.

* * *

She stood before the throne with bowed head. A brown cloak hooded her hair and swept along the floor behind her, billowing around her short frame. Underneath the cloak, she wore a deep green tunic, belted at the waist and tucked into dark pants. Faded and dirty boots reached her knees, giving the girl an even shorter appearance. An empty sheath graced her belt and an unfilled quiver hung from her shoulders. The guards had taken her weapons upon her entrance into the kingdom, and the girl was clearly uncomfortable without her sword and arrows. She shifted awkwardly where she stood, keeping her eyes on the floor and hands folded in front, twisting nervously from time to time.

"Stand still in the presence of the King," came a harsh voice from behind her.

She stopped fidgeting and attempted to remain calm in the increasingly tense space.

The throne room was simultaneously calming and unnerving. The girl knew that certain elements of the Woodland Realm held hallucinogenic properties. She certainly perceived them. The scents of honeysuckle and lavender combined and arched toward the ceiling, their smells mixing with the arching birch branches overhead. Pale branches drooped with golden leaves and red berries. Through their gaps, she could see the bright starlight piercing colored leaves and bursting nebulae painting the darkness. It was surreal, other worldly, and would entrance any human. The girl steadied her breathing and focused her concentration, glancing up the branching staircase before again lowering her eyes to the floor.

Up the winding staircase from the girl, the Elf-King of Mirkwood sat atop an ornate throne of majestic branches and antlers. His legs stretched out lazily before him, crossed over one arm of the grand throne. Heavily robed arms draped across the chair. The King's head rested against the carved back, his eyes unblinking and staring with amusement at the small girl below. A single strand of golden hair fell across his eyes, and the King idly pushed it back behind his crown of white branches and red berries. He then smiled, a cold gesture that did not reach his eyes, and slowly rose from his ornate throne.

He began to descend the twisting staircase, his eyes never leaving the girl.

"Few who enter my realm choose to remain anonymous upon their audience with me," he said, reaching the bottom of the staircase and approaching the hooded figure. "Either you have something to hide, or you are unaware of your surroundings."

The King slowed his pace and came to a halt mere inches from the girl. He crouched down, as though speaking to a child, and pushed his face underneath her hood. She shied away, turning her face to the side. The King smiled and stood again, walking around the girl in increasingly tighter circles.

"I believe," he said quietly, "that you are the former."

He again came to a stop in front of the girl. His eyes narrowed and lost all trace of amusement.

"Remove your hood," he said sternly.

The girl hesitated. Her hands twitched upward toward her hood, but she seemed to think better of her decision, and lowered them again to her belt. The King frowned and made a nearly imperceptible movement toward the girl, which she did not miss. Immediately, her hands went to her hood, flinging it back from her head.

From underneath sprung a mass of dark brown hair that curled around her shoulders and down her back. The suddenly freed locks framed a tanned face, dotted with freckles. Deep brown eyes stared at the Elven King, eyes defiant yet surrounded by lines, as though they hadn't seen sleep in many nights. A deep cut, only a day old, marred the girl's left cheek, a split lip betrayed a scuffle, and a black eye confirmed any suspicions of conflict.

The girl stared at the King, then stepped back and bowed deeply, her hands extending in a gesture that could only be described as mocking.

"King Thranduil," she spoke, her voice hoarse yet betraying the clear annoyance she felt, "I thank you for your warm welcome to your Kingdom. Doubtless, if all your guests receive the same comfortable quarters in your lovely dungeons, followed by this charming audience, then your friends outside this place must be overflowing."

The girl smirked then rose from her bow, her eyes daring the King to respond. His apparent lack of reaction seemed to confuse her momentarily, as the girl's eyebrows furrows and her head tilted slightly to the side. The King then released a harsh laugh and quickly closed the gap between him and the girl. To her credit, she did not retreat from his advance, but her flinch was visible. Thranduil lightly grabbed the girl's chin and tilted it upward, forcing her eyes to observe his own. After a few seconds, he laughed, more lightly this time, and released the girl's face.

"Always a pleasure, Lastande, daughter of Elessar Telcontar. I will send advance word to your father at Gondor that you are returning with a guard, as usual."

The King smiled, then turned and stalked back to the staircase winding upward toward the ornate throne. The girl shouted and lunged forward, only to immediately have her arms pinned behind her by two Elven guards. Thranduil slowly turned and raised an eyebrow at the girl.

"Yes?" he asked, remaining at the foot of the staircase.

The girl leaned forward in the strong Elven grasp. Her eyes were hard, her face impassive. But through her harsh façade, a pleading voice broke through her bleeding lips.

"Please," she said softly, her head dropping and eyes facing the floor as she hung forward in her captor's grasp. "Please don't send me back. I'll only return again, as I always have."

Thranduil's eyes widened, then he smiled and walked back to the girl. At the sound of his footsteps, she raised her head to meet his gaze. The King gazed evenly down at her.

"I would expect nothing less, Princess Lastande. You belong among us, but it is not within my power to allow you to stay. So I will gladly heal you and provision you, but you must return to Gondor."

With that, the King turned away and, with a lazy gesture, sent away his guard, dragging the protesting princess from his hall with them.


	2. Chapter 2

She sat alone in the dungeons of the Woodland Realm. They weren't terribly uncomfortable – she had experienced worse – but still, she was locked in a jail cell all the same. The floor was stone, cold, with bits of moss gathering at the edges where the wall joined it and rose into a high, arching ceiling. The only light that entered came through the bars, molded like branches that cut her off from the rest of the world. She sat aside a solitary, hard bench carved into the stonewall. Beside her sat a tray of wine, bread, and a jar filled with ointment to mend her cuts. She had touched nothing. Outside, Lastande maintained a cool façade. Inside, she was seething with anger and pain, feelings that were not helped by the faint din of raucous celebration that could be heard overhead. The Elves were celebrating again, a festival of Autumn Starlight. Lastande stood and wandered over to the bars, gripping them with calloused hands until her knuckles turned white. She longed to join them; her very bones aches with desire to see the stars and dance under the tall trees. She felt the pulsing of the music, was lifted upward by the smell of leaves and incense and wine, was consumed by the intermingling of starlight with nature.

But a sharp pain in her side brought her crashing back to the ground. She gasped and grabbed her right side, pulling away a hand stained with blood. Grimacing, Lastande forced herself, limping, back to the stone bench and gingerly lifted her tunic. Hissing with pain, she exposed the injured site. A deep gash spread from her hip to her ribcage, a gift from lone Orc she had encountered at the entrance to Mirkwood. She sighed and wondered that the injury had not hindered her thus far. Then, tearing a piece of her tunic from its fabric, she twisted it tightly and placed it between her teeth. She knew the healing powers of the Elves were legendary, yet their ointments were not without pain. Through the torn fabric she smirked. Thranduil knew exactly what he was doing when he provided her with the ointment as opposed to having a Healer examine her wounds. Doubtless, however, he did not know of this particular wound. Gritting her teeth and preparing for the pain, Lastande scooped a small mound of ointment from the jar and prepared to apply it to the bleeding gash.

"Wait."

The deep voice stilled her hand. She looked away from her wound and toward the source. There, King Thranduil stood, peering at her through the twisted bars, observing her with an air of curiosity and a tinge of concern. He was regal and intimidating, Lastande noted. His crown had been polished to shine like the starlight, his silver robes were high-necked, elongating his form and framing his pale face, and his deep red cloak swept behind him, enhancing his already immense air of authority. He was, every inch, a king, Lastande noted with a sense of disgust, realizing how she must appear to him. She was hunched against a wall in the darkest corner of his dungeons. Her hair was matted, her face bruised and dirty, her tunic torn and wrinkled, and she was staring at him through pained eyes with a piece of fabric between gritted teeth. She felt her face burn with shame. She was a princess of Gondor, not some pathetic ranger who wandered unknowingly into the realm. Centering herself, Lastande gingerly lowered her tunic over the gash, removed the cloth from her teeth, and slowly stood to greet the King. As she stood, a jolt of pain struck her side, and she cried out, falling to her knees and clutching her stomach.

Thranduil's eyes widened.

"Guard!" he called, not taking his gaze off Lastande, now doubled over in pain.

An Elf in armor, carrying clanging keys, sprinted to the King's side. Thranduil gestured to the bars separating him from Lastande, and the Elf immediately unlocked the door to the cell. In two strides, the King was at her side, gingerly lifting the girl from the ground and holding her close to his gilded chest. He spoke several terse words to the guard, who bowed and darted from the dungeons and toward the Healers' quarters. Alone, Thranduil rushed Lastande from the dungeons and up white staircases, their steps twisting upward into the starry night and leading the pair into a pale moon.


	3. Chapter 3

Lastande smelled before she saw. Around her, sweet incense billowed with scents of pine and oak. Burning candles, smoking lightly, intermingled their honeyed smell with the incense. It was calming, relaxing, mystical. A wonderfully soft pillow cushioned her heavy head; her body felt consumed by a light blanket. Everything was magical. She felt as though she were floating through space and time – and she had no idea where she was. With that slightly unnerving thought, Lastande opened her eyes slightly, attempting to discern her location.

A slight gasp escaped her lips at the beauty of her surroundings. Although she could barely move her head and body, she could observe the ethereal splendor of the room. Everything was pure white – the floors were wide birch planks, the walls were gleaming and stretched high overhead, where they separated and branched to form the tendrils of forest trees. Through the branches, through the open ceiling, she could see the stars shining down in their radiant brilliance, so close she felt like she could grab them and wrap herself in their brightness. It was the most beautiful place Lastande had ever laid eyes upon, and she remained perfectly still, marveling at the overwhelming, otherworldly splendor of it all.

Beside her, she heard a door creak open. She moved quickly as her head darted to the side, attempting to prop her back up against the pillows. The sudden movement sent a shooting pain through her side, and Lastande gasped and grabbed her stomach. A figure in white darted to her side, grabbing her shoulders and easing her back into the cushioned bed. "Easy, princess," the voice said quietly. "You have incurred great damage from the Orc blade. More than you likely realized at the time of your injury." As she relaxed into the blankets, Lastande's pain subsided, and she looked up into the face of the speaker. An Elf maiden, her black hair falling over her shoulders and back, her blue eyes staring intently at her, met Lastande's gaze. She wore the white garb of the Woodland Healers. Lastande smiled through the dissipating pain.

"Thank you for healing me," she said softly, touching her fingers to her forehead and bowing slightly, as much as her wounds would allow.

The Elf's eyes widened slightly as she returned the gesture.

"There is no need for thanks, princess," she responded, "I consider it a great honor to heal the daughter of Gondor's righteous king." Lastande smiled and nodded, then gestured toward her stomach.

"Can you tell me what happened? I assumed it was merely a deep cut from the blade."

The Elf frowned and placed her hands over the wound, raising her eyebrows at Lastande. She nodded her approval, and the Elf slowly peeled back the blankets, an unfamiliar white tunic that graced Lastande's frame, and layers of bandages over the gash. Lastande let out a slight gasp as the bandages were removed, but nodded through the tears to allow the Healer to work.

The Elf gestured toward the wound.

"The Orc blade was coated with poison, but some substance that we here are unfamiliar with. We at first assumed it was something new, a finding of the Orcs or of their current master. But we were wrong. This is something very old, something dark and ancient." She frowned. "We have sent samples of the poison to Lord Elrond of Rivendell. If anyone knows what this substance is, it will be him."

Lastande's brow furrowed.

"Lord Elrond?" she asked, her voice slightly broken from the pain of having her healing wound exposed to the nighttime air. "Lord Elrond sailed into the West. He has not returned, has he?"

The Elf stood at her side, her eyes searching for an answer and her mouth slightly open. "I do not believe –"

"That you are the one to be informing Princess Lastande of Gondor of current political movements of the Elves," a deep voice rumbled from the open doorway.

The Healer stood abruptly and bowed deeply, then rose, but kept her eyes focused on the birch floor. "King Thranduil," she said quickly, "I was merely telling the princess about the wounds she has incurred. I had no intention of speaking with her any further of these things." Lastande noted that the Healer was shaking slightly, her fingers twisting behind her back as the King stalked over to her location. She decided to cut in.

"King Thranduil, it was my fault. I asked her to tell me about Lord Elrond. Do not blame her," Lastande finished, her eyes locked on the King, hoping to help the Healer out of this situation. A moment of silence passed, then Thranduil smiled coldly and turned to the Healer.

"A talented diplomat, this one. Leave us," he said, turning from the Elf as though she was not present. Lastande followed her movements from the room, locking eyes with the Healer before her final departure. She made a final gesture of thanks toward Lastande, and then left the room. Lastande looked toward the King, whose back was turned toward her. He filled a goblet from a side table, and then sauntered over to her bedside. With a flourish, he removed his outer cloak, still red from the night before, and settled himself beside her at the foot of the bed. They were alone.

"So. Princess," he said softly, putting extra emphasis on her title as he sipped from the golden goblet. "How do you fare?"

Lastande's eyes widened, her anger rising to the surface at the Elven King's mocking tone. She returned his shade blow for blow.

"Likely better than your Kingdom, my Lord. From the Orcs I've encountered and the return of Lord Elrond, it seems you find yourself less secure than you'd believe."

The King smirked at her reply. "Charming as ever, princess," he said, raising his eyebrows and draining the goblet. He dropped it to the floor, letting it clatter and roll away across the hard, wooden surfaces. Lastande flinched at the noise. Thranduil noticed. He smiled, and then rose from her bed, his silver robes sweeping the floor behind him.

"Do you know who you are, princess?" he asked softly. He kept his back facing her, his eyes staring up into the bursting stars overhead.

Lastande paused, then laughed harshly. "Is this a guessing game, my King?" Thranduil remained silent. She sighed and gave him a response.

"I am Lastande, daughter of Elessar Telcontar, formerly Aragorn, of the Line of Elendil. I am daughter of Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond and Celebrian. I am Princess of Gondor." She finished her tirade, awaiting an answer from the Elven King. A slight breath, almost an imperceptible laugh, came from Thranduil's lips. He turned to face her, his eyes dancing with the starlight they had previously observed. Walking over to her bedside, he leaned in, his face nearly touching hers as she remained stoic in the face of his grandeur.

"I would not be so sure," he said quietly.


	4. Chapter 4

Lastande knew she shouldn't do it. But she was never one to listen to logic, and her hotheaded temper often got her into trouble. Only this time, she wasn't in trouble with some language tutor or archery trainer. No, now she was in trouble with the King of the Woodland Realm, and she was actually fairly pleased with herself.

In all honesty, he was asking for it. Thranduil's provocations – his harsh words and his close proximity to her face – all added up to one simple, brash solution: a quick spit in his face and a powerful head-butt to his forehead. It wasn't nearly as elegant a response as she had desired, but the usually composed king's stumble from her bedside and gasping for air made up for that small sacrifice. She grinned, a small laugh escaping her lips at his pain – a laugh that was quickly silenced by a single, darting glare from his piercing eyes. Her mouth grew serious, but her eyes still danced with amusement at Thranduil's surprise.

"Your father – " he hissed at her.

"My father," she cut him off sharply, "Is leagues away in Gondor. What will you do, light the beacons to tell him of this latest offense?"

Thranduil fumed across from her, but said nothing. Lastande's stomach clenched slightly, much preferring a confrontation to his silence. They sat staring at each other for several moments, she gazing defiantly, he glaring angrily, until the Elven king broke their silence.

"May I continue?" he asked snidely, raising his eyebrows at her.

Lastande smirked and nodded her permission, remaining silent in the face of Thranduil's attempted intimidation.

"Your father," he continued, "Has requested you travel with me to Rivendell-"

"Rivendell!" she exclaimed. "Why would my father…?" She trailed off upon seeing the anger return to Thranduil's eyes. She closed her mouth and nodded, face burning with embarrassment.

"Thank you," he nodded with a slight smirk playing on his lips. "We leave tomorrow. That is all you need to know."

The king stood and sauntered away, gathering his grand robes behind him and starting to leave her glimmering quarters. A sharp cry from Lastande stopped him.

"Wait! You have to tell me more. You've just said my heritage might not be what I assumed. Now you're telling me that, within the mere past hours, you've received word all the way from the City of Gondor from my father. What do you keep from me?"

Silence came from across the room. Thranduil stood motionless, his grand robes shimmering with the starlight pouring through the branching ceiling of her room. He turned slowly to face her, still standing near the door.

"You need to know nothing. Everything will be told to you as pertinent. Until then, consider yourself under my protection."

She snorted.

"Consider myself under your protection?" she responded mockingly, imitating the slow grandeur of his voice. "I'm not so certain how I feel about that. You, who shut yourself and your kingdom away for centuries within this dark hole at the corner of Middle Earth, you, who refuse to aid others at your borders who demand help, you, who turn away the weary and the lonely-"

A stinging slap to the face cut off her words. She hadn't even seen the elven king move, but she sat in gaping silence now, clutching the stinging cheek and attempting to stem the tears that pricked at the corners of her eyes. Thranduil stood dangerously close, his eyes blazing with anger.

"Do not speak to me of my kingdom," he hissed. "You could never understand ruling, you could not possibly comprehend the sacrifices I have made for my people."

He stood and turned away from her, staring into the starlit ceiling. Lastande sat silently, warily watching his movements. He again broke their shared silence.

"I will protect you to my best, Lastande," he said softly. "But your enemies are numerous, your adversaries are countless." Thranduil turned to face her. "I do not expect you to trust me. I've turned you away from our borders too many times; I've sent you back to a homeland where you do not belong. But now, the darkness grows in the deep, and the shadows stretch again into our lands. Now, we must put aside past things for things greater and deeper and more sinister."

Lastande sat in raptured silence at his words. Slowly, she nodded her comprehension. He turned to face her as she did. His face seemed to have aged a thousand years; his eyes seemed burdened with the weight of the lives of a thousand souls. He nodded his response and walked toward her. She shrank back, but he reached out slowly to her angrily red cheek and touched it with a cool hand. Immediately, the pain receded. She smiled. He nodded.

"I will send a servant to help you pack and to dress your wound for the journey. We cannot reach Rivendell quick enough with your spreading poison. Until tomorrow, Lastande," he bowed his exit.

"Until tomorrow, Thranduil," she responded, whispering against the starlight.


End file.
